


Snapshots

by Seventeenthcircleofhell



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Alec Hardy Needs A Hug, Depression, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Introspection, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 09:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21444301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seventeenthcircleofhell/pseuds/Seventeenthcircleofhell
Summary: A series of moments spent by Alec Hardy.
Kudos: 45





	Snapshots

**Author's Note:**

> Tiny brain baby that wouldn't leave me alone.

Alec Hardy sits on a bench that overlooks the sea, the endless expansion of waves soothing him, despite being desperately afraid of what lies within them.

He sees out into the cruel tide, feeling himself dragged forward as it pulls itself inwards, a thin wire invisible to the eye tying him forever to the water.

He knows he'll never escape it, so instead he stares in the face of it.

In his lowest moments, he thinks of Mark.

(The waves remind him that he, too, has options.)

-

Alec Hardy sits on the floor of his locked office, the blinds forever drawn. He cradles his knees to his chest under the desk like a child.

He's playing hide-and-seek from himself. If he stays there long enough, the rest of the world will melt away. He will fall into a universe in which Sandbrook never happened. In his most cynical moments, he'll ponder a world in which Pippa never even existed.

He doesn't let himself eat after he rides that train of thought for too long.

(The guilt always snuffs out his appetite.)

-

Alec Hardy stands outside his front door with a cigarette. He doesn't let himself sit down on the step, lest he get too comfortable like this again. He exhales heavy, the mist of his breathe against the cold air entwines with the cloud of smoke in a wistful dance.

He finishes his first. He decides he doesn't want to go back inside. He picks out a second.

He drops the lighter, and spends too long fumbling with the packet. He tells himself he's out of practice.

(No one else is around to see his hands shake.)

-

Alec Hardy perches on the corner of Ellie Miller's desk - except she goes by Barrett again these days, but it doesn't have the same ring to it as "Millahr".

He's endlessly happy for her. Except now he has to call her Ellie.

The intimacy that implies chokes him some days. The idea that they've stuck a foot over that invisible line in the sand, the idea someone maybe cares about him enough to make him feel guilty for not caring about himself.

(They both know the sand blowing in the wind blurred that line long ago.)

-

Alec Hardy lies on his bed, curtains drawn, fully dressed. He has a tomb in the middle of his house.

He stares at the ceiling, counts every crack and chip in the paint, watches idly as the clock hands move slowly. The ticking sound is starting to drive him insane, a drum beating like a jackhammer against his temples. There are fists inside his head knocking desperately against the walls of his skull, screaming to escape.

He grabs at the roots of his hair, screwing up his eyes as he pulls. His damaged nails scrape against his scalp, and he bites hard on his bottom lip to resist a scream.

He's trying to replace one pain with another. He's spent his whole life doing so.

(He can't tell if the new pain is worse than the old one.)

-

Alec Hardy sits solitary on a bench that overlooks the sea. He tends to think of it as _his and <strike>Miller's</strike> Ellie's bench,_ but tries to extinguish that very thoroughly.

The typically cool breeze has fallen more on the side of freezing today. His hair, usually falling into his eyes these days, is whipped back in a mock quiff that gravity does not entertain for long.

The wind is too strong to pursue a cigarette, but he needs to keep his hands full. He feels a familiar itch creep onto his skin, fingers spasming into the empty space, numbed by cold.

Instead he pulls out a hip flask which he knows he shouldn't have. A lengthy swig lights his body on fire.

(The cold settles inside of him instead.)


End file.
